


I know you're lost when you run away

by thp_cara (TheHolosexualPan)



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Character Death, Cleo is a stiched up zombie gal and we support, Introspection, Light Angst, Other, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28537749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHolosexualPan/pseuds/thp_cara
Summary: Scars have meanings, is what Cleo thinks, deep down.
Relationships: Implied Joe/Cleo, can absolutely be read as platonic
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	I know you're lost when you run away

**Author's Note:**

> A short thing that I've been thinking about for a while, please know that this work talks about past character death, wounds, scars and the likes.

She thinks it may be due to the fact that she works with her hands a lot. After all, posing armour stands and arranging every detail to make sure nothing is out of place are things she has to do manually and, sure, at the end of setting out a scene, Cleo has to step back and look at the bigger picture, but while working on it, it’s all she sees. Her own fingers, blue tinted, nails short and looking almost purple due to lack of circulation, work over mini blocks and the wood of the armor stands before she has to open up the armour stand book and fix one thing or another using the code itself, and so she is looking at herself work in a way, is looking at the way skin stretches and at the way muscles tense and relax and at the magic that makes her pulse flutter at a slower pace than her own blood ever did.

And just as well, Cleo sees the thin, white lines of scars. They’re actually quite fine, the stitches made carefully, sometimes going around the entirety of a finger, and if she looks closer, Cleo can see the indents where surgical thread had been sown into her skin, but none of the scars are as obvious as they had once been and, maybe, that is the problem. 

Cleo scoffs, stepping back from the circlet of leaves and branches that will become a wreath once she is done, and sits down on the side of the scene, pinching at the bridge of her nose and shaking her head. It’s ridiculous, actually, she thinks, but saying that to herself doesn’t stop the way it feels to see what had once been wounds on living flesh, bleeding and almost bone deep in most places, infection making them swell with a flush to her skin then turn into scars, still raw, her skin marble white, not yet as unliving as it is now, the dip of the marks obvious and almost gorey, and now…

Now it’s just lines. Pale, barely there lines where they are scattered around her hands and her feet, because her worst wounds had been delivered to her torso and neck, is what Cleo is left with. She should be happy that they don’t stand out as horrifyingly as they once had, but it just feels like it’s a part of her that is fading away. They won’t ever go away, not fully, but because it is still magic and her own stubborness that keeps her together, and the magic mindlessly does what it can to heal, Cleo wonders if this is her losing a part of herself, is seeing the proof of her own pain and, all in all,  _ death _ disappear, as if it never were, and it  _ is _ stupid, because Cleo is still dead. Well, undead, but it’s not like her eyes will ever go back to the clear green they had once been, mist forever settled over them and it’s not like her body will ever look alive again, but it’s the small things that make Cleo think. 

She doesn’t want the scars, but without them, who is she? What is her story? Over the years, before they’d reached the point of barely being visible anymore, Cleo would look at the marks on her body with something akin to pride, because she beat death and she beat the danger and she beat the pain and she is still here, standing, surrounded by friends and by her own creations. They are more than reminders, they are her very memories. Cleo wants call that idiotic, to dismiss it as nothing more than some weird series of needlessly emotional words that came to her for no reason at all other than to annoy her, but it’s true. Feelings are hard, backstories are harder, but scars are easy. A sword slashing at her arm, an axe slung at her neck, it’s easier to explain it like that and to wave away some of the, and Cleo hums, thinking of the word,  _ trauma _ of those events, and maybe that’s what she misses. The simplicity of scars that are stark enough to tell a story, to explain her emotions regarding her own tale.

But she’s not in touch with her feelings, Joe always tells her, because she doesn’t express them well or because she doesn't accept them, one or the other, he always explains, so, of course, she just ignores the way her brain skews off of its normal path when she lets the knowledge of her scars getting fainter affect her. But that never helps. 

Cleo sighs and looks up at the sky. It’s cold, the gray sky brewing a storm, maybe, snowflakes already drifting down around the Christmas Area, only helping thicken the blanket of frost already covering the area, but she doesn’t feel it that much, since she doesn’t have a body that she should be keeping warm anymore, but it makes her reach out to catch one of the snowflakes. It doesn’t melt. Cleo smirks.

Maybe that’s the thing that bothers her, the fact that, even after denying death that which everyone owes to it once their time comes, she is not permanent, no one is, everything changes and grows, and maybe change is harder to handle when she acts stoic about things as mushy as ‘personal growth’.

Everything still happened, Cleo reminds herself in a moment of revelation, light green gaze watching as more snow settles right in the palm of her hand, covering up its odd tint and whatever remains of the scars and everything, leaving only a raised surface of white by the time Cleo brings herself back into reality.

But this sort of nostalgia isn’t really useful, is it? To wish for the signs of what had happened to remain, that’s quite dumb too. The future won’t change the past, whether anyone wants it to or not, and she really should finish the wreath before going back to her base to chug down a mug of coffee that is too hot, but that won’t burn her, undead as she is.

Cleo stands up, red hair blowing in the slight breeze and, with a lopsided smile and a chuckle, she considers going to Joe. He always says that it’s easier to process things if she talks about them, if she puts words to them, and Joe has always been better at words than her.


End file.
